


when solemn sighs the hollow wind

by blackkat



Series: Zabrak Bros prompts [1]
Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Enemies to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Jedi Feral, Light Angst, M/M, Mandalorian Wolffe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:55:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26020771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: Feral staggers out of the escape pod into the planet’s dawn, still shaking with adrenaline. His bones ache, not helped by the sudden, jarring stop the pod slid to, and he kind of wants desperately to cry.
Relationships: Feral/CC-3636 | Wolffe
Series: Zabrak Bros prompts [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1941697
Comments: 55
Kudos: 918
Collections: Star Wars Alternate Universes





	when solemn sighs the hollow wind

**Author's Note:**

> Full credit to this post: https://blackkatmagic.tumblr.com/post/626994878075879424/ding-dong-the-bitch-is-dead-north-peach for the idea, and to the anon who suggested Wolffe/Feral for the inspiration.

Feral staggers out of the escape pod into the planet’s dawn, still shaking with adrenaline. His bones ache, not helped by the sudden, jarring stop the pod slid to, and he kind of wants desperately to cry.

He doesn’t, though. Thinks, bitterly, almost hysterically, that Savage would be proud of him for such restraint, and can't stop the choked sob that tears from his throat.

“There is emotion, yet peace,” he whispers, but the words are stolen by the whistle of the wind across the field and don’t bring nearly the relief they usually do.

There isn't time to feel sorry for himself. There isn't time to stagger and stumble and wander around. Savage is still up there, still under Ventress’s control, and he’ll likely be sending droids down after Feral as soon as he tears his way out of the hold Feral locked him in. it won't be long; the hold was meant to contain dangerous animals, not Jedi.

Not Sith, which is what Feral supposes Savage is right now, even if it’s entirely against his will.

Maul will need to know that Savage is stronger, Ventress’s hold more unbreakable. He’ll probably try to rush out of the Temple to find Feral, to confront Savage, so—Feral should probably comm Mace instead. Maul’s Master will be able to help him find balance. But Feral’s comm is back on Savage’s ship, stripped from him along with everything else when Savage captured him.

Feral managed to get his lightsaber back from Savage, but he lost the amulet Savage gave him when they were children, being separated for the first time when their Masters chose them. He lost the symbol of the promise Savage made him that day, and somehow that hurts more than anything else in the whole mess. More than Feral’s battered face, more than the lightsaber burn driven straight through his shoulder, more than the brand Savage tried to sear into his arm, twin to the one Savage now bears.

Nightsister marks, Feral thinks, and closes his eyes, wrapping his arms around himself as best he can. His right one doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to bend, but—this planet looked inhabited. There might be someone with bacta, someone with a comm. Feral doesn’t want to put them in danger if Ventress’s droids come looking for him, but—the Council needs to know that Ventress and Talzin have aligned themselves with the Trade Federation. They need to be prepared for whatever Dooku is planning next.

It’s going to be a long walk to the nearest settlement, though.

Feral digs his fingers into the rough cloth of his tunics, the scorched, almost severed tabard. Savage took his cloak from him, and it’s _cold_ , a dusting of snow already on the ground and more threatening. He’s going to leave obvious tracks as he travels, and that’s not good. It’s tempting to consider finding a spot and holing up, waiting for whatever storm this is to pass, but—

But. The Council. Maul.

If Maul thinks he’s lost _another_ brother, he’s going to do something reckless that even Mace Windu can't prevent, and Feral was already supposed to report back almost a week ago.

And then, low, dangerous, a familiar voice says, “Stop where you are, _Jetii_.”

Feral freezes, breath hitching. Wants to curse, wants to throw himself forward and run, wants to turn and crumple at the boots of this new threat he isn't in any way prepared to deal with.

Of _course_ his escape pod crashed on a planet in Mandalorian space. Feral isn't even surprised at this point.

“Wolffe,” he says, and just manages to keep his voice steady. Doesn’t turn, doesn’t move, just keeps his arms wrapped around himself and his eyes fixed on the snowy field ahead of him. “You're far from Mandalore.”

“I thought I saw a rat moving around our fortress,” Wolffe says coolly. “What does the Jedi Order want with the settlements on this planet?”

“Nothing,” Feral says, perfectly honest. “My escape pod crashed, I didn’t come here on purpose. If you’re willing to point me towards the spaceport, I’ll—I’ll leave with the first ship out—”

“Turn around,” Wolffe says shortly.

Feral closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t want this to happen. Wolffe is—he’s the son of the Mand’alor, one of _millions_ of sons who helped Jango Fett win the Mandalorian Civil War and establish an empire to rival one of the empires of old. He’s an enemy, because Wolffe is Mandalorian and Feral is a Jedi, but he’s always been an honorable one. One Feral doesn’t hate facing, even when they’re on opposite sides of a mission.

Right now, though, Feral feels wrenched loose of his moorings, battered, aching. All he wants is to find somewhere dark to curl up and feel pathetically sorry for himself for a little while, and the idea of having to put up with Wolffe’s mockery, or worse, his _pity_ —

But as a Jedi, there's nothing to do but face his fears. His Master would be disappointed in him if he didn’t, and Feral has never wanted to do anything less than he wants to disappoint Plo.

Feral takes a breath and turns around.

Wolffe is watching him, helmet off, mismatched eyes narrowed. His blaster isn't wavering, and his armor is brightly polished beskar, and he looks just like he always does, to the point that it almost hurts to see. Feral watches his gaze flicker down, then slowly slide up, and pulls his arms in a little more tightly around himself.

“There _is_ a spaceport, isn't there?” Feral asks, and hates himself for how his voice wavers.

Slowly, deliberately, Wolffe’s blaster dips. He lowers it, then slings the strap over his shoulder and steps forward, three paces right into Feral’s space. Feral ducks his head, not wanting to see the condemnation in Wolffe’s eyes, because Wolffe is _strong_ , survived Ventress, survived the Death Watch, survived Grievous more than once. Feral couldn’t even manage to save his younger brother—

Bare fingers grip his chin, gentle, and tilt his head up. Feral swallows, but doesn’t resist, and Wolffe raises his head, eyes narrowed, mouth curling down. Slowly, carefully, Wolffe’s thumb slides over the edge of Feral’s mouth, smearing away some of the blood that’s doubtless there. It makes Feral want to shiver, to look away, to jerk free, but—

Wolffe’s fingers are warm against the frigid air, and his touch doesn’t hurt, even when his thumb brushes over the deepening bruise that covers Feral’s cheek. For a long moment, he stares at it, and then he takes a breath, and asks, low and quiet and practically vibrating with fury, “Who did this to you?”

Feral feels himself crumple, feels the impact of those words like a blow in the center of his chest. His breath hitches, shudders out on a choked sob, and he tries to take a stumbling step back.

Before he can, a hand catches his elbow, pulls him forward instead. Wolffe hauls him in, still gripping Feral’s chin, and growls, “Who?”

“We’re—we’re enemies,” Feral manages, unsteady, cracking in his throat. “Why are you—”

“You're _my_ enemy,” Wolffe says sharply. “Whatever the kriff made you look like that, it needs to be dealt with.”

Feral isn't going to cry. He’s _not_. “You can't,” he says, and ducks his head as best he can. Wolffe lets go of his face, but that hand slides up to his horns instead, fingers gently hooking them, and it takes effort not to just collapse into his arms then and there.

It’s been a hard week, and someone even _pretending_ to pet his horns right now is going to make him weak in the knees.

“Yeah?” Wolffe challenges, and grips. Pulls Feral in another step, until Feral is almost pressed up against him, barely a handful of centimeters between their bodies. It makes Feral’s breath catch, his heart twist, and he _wants_ —

“It was Savage,” he whispers, and feels Wolffe go very, very still. “Ventress has him, and she and Talzin did _something_ to him, and he tried—he tried—”

Gentle, careful, Wolffe tips Feral’s head to the side, then fits his fingers over the bruises from Savage’s hand that are already starting to darken. “He tried to break your neck,” Wolffe finishes grimly, and Feral can't even find it in himself to deny it.

“He’s not in his right mind,” he says, almost plaintive, and Wolffe’s breath hisses out from between clenched teeth. He tips Feral’s chin up again, hand tightening in his horns, and leans in.

The kiss burns against bruised lips, but it kicks down deep in Feral’s chest, something so sweet and desperate that he could cry. With a low sound, he wraps his arms around Wolffe in return, pulls him close and deepens the kiss, and—

The hands on him are gentle. They cradle, but don’t bruise, and maybe it’s a contradiction but Feral feels just a little stronger with Wolffe’s careful hands on his skin.


End file.
